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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24735196">symphony (will you hold me tight and not let go?)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbow_porcupine_ninja/pseuds/rainbow_porcupine_ninja'>rainbow_porcupine_ninja</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Insecure John, M/M, Mutual Pining, except it’s 3 because I’m a lazy slut, use of way too many metaphors as per usual</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:15:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,852</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24735196</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbow_porcupine_ninja/pseuds/rainbow_porcupine_ninja</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Right,” John states, trying to explain to himself what that outburst of glee in his veins is supposed to mean. “Okay. You’re… unattached, like me.”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s still staring at him expectantly, and John licks his lips, planning ways to steer the conversation away from this awkward, wonderful mess.</p>
<p>And Sherlock looks down at John’s tongue and lips, and John feels that complicated feeling again, that lurch in his heart that makes him swallow and wonder, how on earth did this man happen to someone like me?</p>
<p>“Yes,” Sherlock says softly. “I suppose I am.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John’s never good enough for Sherlock Holmes; he’s just a frumpy sweater-loving ex-soldier that has no right to love Sherlock the way that he does. Sherlock, however, is prepared to change John’s mind.</p>
<p>OR: 3 times John thinks he’s not good enough + 1 where Sherlock pulls his head out of his arse far enough to redeem himself.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>166</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>symphony (will you hold me tight and not let go?)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>happy pride month, you wonderful human beings reading this, and hope you enjoy this fun little self-indulgent thing that I wrote to make myself feel something!</p>
<p>Anyone else LOVE insecure pining???? No? Just me?</p>
<p>Also this thing helped me when writing the first bit, so props to this amazing person who wrote the entire script for the first episode!!! https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43298.html</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1. </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first time John Watson lays eyes on Sherlock Holmes he swallows, taking in the bright, searching eyes darting around the room, the sharp cheekbones only accentuated by the upturned collar, the long expanse of neck. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Er, here. Use mine,” John offers, passing the stranger his phone. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man’s eyes find John’s, and John finds himself, for the first time in his life, feeling the sensation of being searched, rifled through like a set of drawers. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock takes the phone out of John’s outstretched hand and turns away, flipping the keypad away and beginning to type. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Afghanistan or Iraq?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John blinks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He can feel Mike’s knowing grin without turning around, and wonders what he’s missing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry?” John tries, watching Sherlock’s deft fingers still typing out a sentence, then pressing send.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock glances up briefly before looking back to the phone in his hand. “Which was it— Afghanistan or Iraq?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John hesitates, looking over to Mike, who continues to smile smugly. John can’t help wondering how on earth could this man possibly know anything about his time in the army, given that they’ve never met before.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Afghanistan,” John affirms, feeling the twitch of his left hand against his thigh. ”Sorry, how did you know…?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The following conversation draws John closer and closer into this shrewd, sharp, mountain of a man. There’s something about the way he moves and breathes that makes John want to step closer and closer until there’s no space between them, breathe him in and try to unravel the puzzle bit by bit. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But it’s when Sherlock </span>
  <em>
    <span>click-winks</span>
  </em>
  <span> at him, of all things, that he feels a violent tug below his breastbone. It’s the first sign of life inside Sherlock that John’s been able to catch a glimpse of, and it’s the most adorable, corny thing he’s ever seen. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John turns to Mike in disbelief, but the only thing his friend has in store for him is ”yeah. He’s always like that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second time he feels that </span>
  <em>
    <span>tug</span>
  </em>
  <span> is in a small restaurant on Northumberland Street, where the owner utters the loaded words, “on the house, for you and your date.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It takes John a moment to understand what Angelo means, for he can’t really picture anyone on the same intellectual level as Sherlock; anyone who holds him at night, or understands him, or plays the violin, or has the ability to deduce everyone like he can. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John knows, suddenly, that Sherlock’s ‘date’ could never really be </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the broken soldier with a sensitive, crippled heart; there was no way that he could possibly fill that role. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He hears the man with the umbrella’s voice bouncing around inside his brain, not for the first time today. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re very loyal, very quickly.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re not haunted by the war; you miss it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not his date,” John spits out. But there’s a part of him that wants to be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Later, when John’s tucked into his food, he tries to get Sherlock talking, to crack the impenetrable layers of the enigma sitting opposite, who is currently drumming his fingers on the table in an unrecognisable pattern and staring out the window, across the street.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“People don’t have arch-enemies,” John begins.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It takes Sherlock a few moments to look around from the window to face John. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sudden intense eye contact causes him to suppress a shiver, and the fierce gaze immediately reminds him of a shark; silent and intent on its prey.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry?” Sherlock asks, devoid of any emotion.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life,” John stammers. “Doesn’t happen.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John’s not shocked to discover that he gets nervous around Sherlock’s penetrating gaze, and this makes him even more uncomfortable. No one has gotten under his skin like this— never.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock turns around again, seeming disinterested, and John breaks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So who did I meet today?” he asks, leaning closer in a desperate attempt to keep Sherlock’s fleeting attention.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What do real people have, then, in their ‘real lives’?” Sherlock asks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John doesn’t like the quotation marks Sherlock puts in there with his words, and how it seems to separate the two of them even further.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Friends,” John answers. “People they know, people they like, people they don’t like… girlfriends, boyfriends…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock looks back at him for a brief second, and John sees some indescribable emotion flash in his deep, all-knowing eyes.  “Yes, well, as I was saying— dull.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have a girlfriend, then?” John asks, biting the inside of his cheek.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock purses his lips, then answers, “Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A moment passes between them, provocative and electrifying.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not really my area.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not really my area.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm,” John manages to push out of his throat, wondering whether Sherlock realises the possible significance, the weight, of that statement.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you… have a boyfriend?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock whips around to him a bit too quickly, so John babbles out, “Which is fine, by the way.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock says, so staggeringly patient with John, who feels like he could burst into flames right then and there.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So he smiles, trying to indicate that he doesn’t mean anything negative, and Sherlock tips his head slightly to the right.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>For fuck’s sake, I </span>
  </em>
  <span>am</span>
  <em>
    <span> bisexual, you know, it’s fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he tries to convey with his smile, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to get it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So you’ve got a boyfriend, then?” John urges.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” John states, trying to explain to himself what that outburst of glee in his veins is supposed to mean. “Okay. You’re… unattached, like me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock’s still staring at him expectantly, and John licks his lips, planning ways to steer the conversation away from this awkward, wonderful mess.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And Sherlock looks down at John’s tongue and lips, and John feels that complicated feeling again, that lurch in his heart that makes him swallow and wonder, </span>
  <em>
    <span>how on earth did this man happen to someone like me?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Sherlock says softly. “I suppose I am.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>2.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m so mad at you,” John fumes, not even waiting until the front door is closed. Sherlock is still grumbling on to himself about bullets or something (he hasn’t stopped since he started in the cab) but John can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>stand</span>
  </em>
  <span> it, so he grabs Sherlock by that stupid turned-up collar and pushes him up, flush against the wall of the hallway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Listen to me, Sherlock, you can’t go throwing your life around like that,” John hisses. “Don’t you understand? People care about you, you dolt. What am I saying, do you even know what it’s like to care about someone?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock inhales deeply through his nose as though bracing himself, still pinned to the wall. They probably look ridiculous, John notes, with the height difference, but Sherlock closes the front door gently with his foot. “As much as it would surprise you, John, I do feel emotion on occasion.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighs, then. “My apologies, John. I sometimes forget… what I might mean to other people. I’m not used to reading a room.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>John steps back, the rage previously welling up inside him dying down a little. Sherlock, with all his irritating behaviours, always has that effect on him. A sort of steadier, almost. A weight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock clears his throat, then continues, “I feel the same about you, you know.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>John has the urge to laugh, because Sherlock clearly has no idea what John truly feels about him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then Sherlock steps ever closer, looming over John like a gentle giant, and smiles softly. And there’s that feeling again, that tug deep inside his chest. It’s so many emotions at once; it’s love, it’s joy, it’s a certain kind of sadness that the knowledge that </span>
  <em>
    <span>John will never be good enough</span>
  </em>
  <span> brings. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he bottles it up, swallows it down, and places a hand on Sherlock’s chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“John,” Sherlock whispers. “I would have died for you, today. I’ll try harder to remember myself next time, but… it was for you. Remember that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>A moment passes, then Sherlock steps back and makes his way up the creaky stairs, leaving John to press his forehead against the wall where Sherlock was once pressed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>3.</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re mad,” Sherlock observes from his spot on the couch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>John looks up from the newspaper he was trying to distract himself with, jaw clenched. “How’d you figure?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock continues to stare up at the ceiling. “Your eyes haven’t moved from that sentence about the missing dog. No, child. Ah, here’s the angry smile. Pretty intimidating, to be fair, John.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not mad, Sherlock,” John grits.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, you’re not,” Sherlock agrees, sitting up to face him, appearing to be suddenly interested. ”Wrong shoes, and you shaved more carefully this morning, only nicked one spot under your ear— you’re jealous.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh yeah?” John scratches the back of his head with his left hand, still pretending to be immersed in the paper in front of him. “Who of?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock slinks past John’s chair to the kitchen. ”Haven’t figured it out yet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sudden, telltale </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘ah’</span>
  </em>
  <span> of Sherlock’s phone on the table makes John swallow, hard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aren’t you going to check that?” John asks roughly, turning around to watch Sherlock fiddle with an experiment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock smiles lopsidedly and walks back after a moment, ignoring the phone, then suddenly kneels in front of his blogger on the floor. John swallows. “Nah. Got something more pressing at hand, I’m afraid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sensation of being examined, stripped down, at such close quarters is too much for John to bear right now, so he closes his eyes tightly to shut it out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why must you know everything? I’m not a criminal, you know— not someone you’re trying to lock up,” John whispers. “Why must you examine?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t help it, frankly,” Sherlock says, almost to himself, brushing his fingers on John’s knee. It jolts. “I can’t help but be interested; even after all this time, there’s so much to uncover with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>John opens his eyes, speechless, and looks at the man kneeling in front of him. Looks and looks and looks, in the hope that he could possibly understand what that’s supposed to mean, like a drunk in a gallery trying to understand what the painting in front of him is trying to whisper to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Me or Miss Adler?” Sherlock interrupts suddenly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>John can hear Mrs Hudson hoovering downstairs, the garish noise drifting up through the floorboards. He tries to focus on that instead of his hammering heart in his ribcage, a harsh reminder of the situation at hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then he swallows. Twice. “What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a simple question, John,” Sherlock says impatiently. “Are you jealous of me, or Miss Adler?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>John doesn’t dare to breathe, afraid of giving it away. Afraid of Sherlock laughing, or getting angry, or walking out. The others don’t seem so bad, John reckons, but he wouldn’t be able to stand it if Sherlock were to walk out on him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock wraps a slender, pale hand around John’s ankle and tips his head to the right, as he always does when he’s figured something out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>John struggles to catch up; Sherlock now seems to know more about his emotions than he does. It’s hard to understand them by himself, really. He goes out all the time, trying to drown his feelings in women and booze, and Sherlock never seems to be affected; if he is, he’s very good at hiding it. John doesn’t deserve to be jealous, not after everything that’s happened, but that awful feeling in his throat hasn’t gone down since yesterday, when The Woman waltzed into Sherlock’s arms. Naked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop thinking, you idiot,” Sherlock cautioned. “You’re so </span>
  <em>
    <span>loud</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘If you can hear my thoughts, you cock, you wouldn’t have to ask me anything,’ John growls, and yanks his foot away from Sherlock’s grasp, making to stand up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Wait, John.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>John shuts him out again, puts his face in his hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You know we’re… not like that. You know me. John.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>There goes the tug again in John’s chest at the </span>
  <em>
    <span>yearning</span>
  </em>
  <span> in Sherlock’s voice, and John’s sick of it. He’s had enough of the constant pining, all hours of the day, at Sherlock’s voice and smile and cheekbones; his gentle touch and jokes, and how he cares for John even though he’s never done anything to deserve it. To deserve Sherlock, in all his manners and ways.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“John,” Sherlock says, sounding choked and confused. “I know I’m bad at this, but please, talk to me at least?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The hoovering stops downstairs, and John is suddenly reminded that he needs to get groceries. So he lifts his head and braces himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Head up, soldier. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine, Sherlock, let it be,” John finally says. “I need to run out for a few things. Need anything?”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a look of disappointment on Sherlock’s face, with his brow furrowed in concentration.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>John stands up, and Sherlock lets him this time. He picks his coat up off the couch, and leaves the apartment. Leaves Sherlock sitting there on the floor, and leaves to get milk and cheese and bread, and with every step he takes down the stairs, he feels his heart get heavier and heavier. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sherlock, he thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> his cheekbones and brain and gentle fingers, and yanks the door open to the cold. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>+1</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s early one Sunday morning and John’s making his coffee, still wrapped in a pleasant haze of sleep, when Sherlock skids into the kitchen, a wild look in his eyes. He’s wrapped his soft robe around his body messily and his hair is crazy and unrestrained. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John almost drops his mug. “You okay, Sherlock?” he asks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock steps forward shakily and snatches the mug out of John’s hand, putting it on the counter. “I need to talk to you. Come sit, please.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John follows Sherlock, bewildered, into the living room. “If this is about the severed head in the fridge, I’m not apologising for giving it to Molly,” John says. “It ruined my lasagna.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock manhandles John so that they are sitting together on the threadbare couch, and John is growing more and more concerned with every time Sherlock clasps his hands together and fiddles with his robe. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Look, John… I have something to tell you,” Sherlock insists, running a hand through his untamed morning hair. “I… think it might be best if you move out.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John’s heart drops through the floor. “Sorry?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve been thinking about our relationship lately,” Sherlock says, sounding more and more sure of himself as he goes on. “And I think it would be best if you moved out. Maybe not forever. Or yes, forever. We could still see each other. As friends. But.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You want me to leave?” John whispers, and he sounds pathetic and he hates himself for it. eyes threatening to brim with tears. He never cries. But first time for everything, he supposes absentmindedly. “Is there something that I’ve done?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock presses his lips together and doesn’t reply.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s this finality in the silence that comes after. John has to get out of here, he has to escape this emptiness that fills the apartment and his mind and his heart. Sherlock is just sitting there, almost stone-faced, and John is seeping down into the floor. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t breathe because his lungs are filled with flowers that are wilting and stealing his oxygen, so he does the only thing he can think of and rushes out of the room, out of the apartment, out of the building. He’s still wearing his pyjamas, but Sherlock doesn’t try to stop him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John starts walking down the street at some point; he’s not sure when. He finds a bench and sits down to put his head in his hands. This empty, cold silence washes over him and he goes numb for a while. He’s not sure how long he sits there, crouched in the freezing morning air. Then he opens his eyes and starts breathing exercises that his therapist once taught him, counting out one, two, three until he can feel something again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly John can feel hands on his shoulders, and then there’s a panicked Sherlock kneeling in front of him on the sidewalk. “John,” he says, sounding breathless. “John, focus on me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck off, Sherlock,” John manages to breathe.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then Sherlock grips John’s head in both hands and forces him to look at him properly. “I’ve got something to say, John. These last twenty minutes have been living hell, and I’m so sorry, because I’ve made a dreadful mistake. I misunderstood what was going on, I thought you knew about it, but I got it the wrong way around, and I’ve never made a mistake like this before, I’m so stupid.” he says, closing his eyes shut in a way that he does when on a case. John notices some of the colour coming back into his own neck and cheeks. “You see, John, I care about you so terribly, in a way that I never have with anyone before, and it scares me so much, I…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He takes a deep breath in, and grabs both of John’s icy hands in his own. “See? I suppose this is when I say I’m in love with you, but that’s never seemed grand or important enough. I want to say something more, something that fully describes my love for you, but I suppose this has to be enough…” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He squeezes John’s hands desperately. “Please come back with me, John. I couldn’t bear it if you left.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John’s brain stops and restarts at the squeeze of Sherlock’s fingers, and he begins to think again. He feels their palms pressed together and fingers intertwined, and suddenly there’s that feeling again, but now it’s flowering and wrapping itself around his entire body. “You never said,” John said breathlessly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you had worked it out,” Sherlock offered, ever so calculating. “I assumed that was why you were being so… distant. That’s why I thought it best for you to go.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John gulps down a sob, then uses their entwined hands to pull Sherlock up into his lap. And just holds him, like that. The flowers travel through his rib cage and wrap around his spine.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you, too, you cock,” John growls into his jacket. “Now let’s go inside, please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They walk into their apartment, and Sherlock drops his coat by his chair airily, then spins around like a child. John can’t help but laugh, but then he starts sinking again, feeling the heavy weight of his head on his shoulders trying to make him melt into the floorboards. “Are you sure about this?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock laughs, a sound of pure joy and mirth that makes John feel a little less heavy. “You idiot, I’ve been sure ever since you left your cane at that cafè. It should be me asking that question, with everything I’ve put you through.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John can feel himself turning red with the weight of Sherlock’s statement, yet he steps closer, his hands behind his back. He is now very aware of his threadbare pyjamas, his scruffy hair and unshaven face, but he still shoves out, “I can’t help but feel like I’m not good enough. For you. For any of this.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a pause in the room, a gentle interruption of silence, then Sherlock tilts his head to the side and grips John’s elbows. “John, you have to know how special… you are to me. You have to know by now, it must be obvious.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not to me!” John shouts, and Sherlock blinks. “I had no fucking clue, and now I’m just supposed to take your word for it? I’m a nobody compared to you, Sherlock. Nothing compared to your brilliance and wisdom, so forgive me, but I find it exceptionally hard to believe that </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> of all people are in love with </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“John,” Sherlock implores unwaveringly. “Come here. Sit with me. Listen.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They sit down on their couch, and Sherlock pulls his legs cross-legged with him to face John completely. “You are the most beautiful, fascinating person that I’ve ever come across. The things you do, however dull, make me sit up and take notice, because you are so interesting to me. I want to fill up manuscripts with the way you move, or how you take your coffee, or the facial expressions you make. When you leave the room, all I do is work out how long it will take before I can see you again, don’t you get it?” Sherlock finishes desperately. “I’m sorry if this is too much, but every day you’ve spent in my life has been one of satisfaction. It’s only ever been you, John. Just you, and me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” John says simply, easily filling up with emotion. “Can I kiss you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It turns out that Sherlock is an incredible kisser, to no one’s surprise. He brings his hand up to John’s jaw and tilts his head up so they match together perfectly, cheek to nose, and John melts. It’s over in seconds, yet John can’t stop grinning. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re so breathtaking,” Sherlock whispers. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John giggles, a stupid sound, but it makes Sherlock smile nonetheless. “It might take me a while to fully… understand, Sherlock. But I’m trying my best.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He receives a grin, and then he feels himself being pressed back against the couch. Sherlock lands his entire weight on top of John and latches his mouth onto John’s neck. John breathes out, slow and soft, and cards his hands through Sherlock’s perfect untidy hair. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope you know we’re not moving ever again,” Sherlock grumbles, placing a kiss on several places of John’s face with immense concentration.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John huffs out an agreement before wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s back and pulling him in for a proper embrace. “God, I… Sherlock,” he attempts, heart shattering then fixing itself over and over again. “I am so in love with you, you know that, right?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I had an inkling,” Sherlock mumbles into John’s chest. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What do we do now?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John can feel Sherlock’s hands moving up and down his sides and presses his face deeper into Sherlock’s hair in contentment as Sherlock speaks up again. “Well, I would very much like to court you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Court me?” John echoes, sitting up and bringing Sherlock with him. Sherlock wobbles, placing both arms on either side of John’s body. He can see the panic in Sherlock’s eyes before he takes in John’s grin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Unless that’s not what you want?” Sherlock asks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” John laughs, kissing Sherlock’s cheek and loving the momentary high it gets him. “That sounds like the most wonderful thing in the world.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>All these wonderful thoughts rush through John’s mind; eating together at cafes, running through the streets of London hand in hand, sharing a bed together.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Just you, and me. Sherlock and John. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock smiles, slow and tender. “Well then. I’ll go make you a coffee to celebrate.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John raises an eyebrow at the surprising gesture, but then Sherlock flops down heavily onto him, pressing an openmouthed kiss to John’s sternum. “On second thought, coffee can wait.” </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>wow, I really didn’t bother editing that too much, huh? oh well. hope you liked it!</p>
<p>As usual, my tumblr is @rainbowdolphinsattack or @arthurlervesmerlin for BBC Merlin content.</p>
<p>ALSO please leave kudos and comments, every keyboard smash heals my broken heart a little more *weeps*</p></blockquote></div></div>
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